


Not On The Run

by barbex



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:09:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29726034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex/pseuds/barbex
Summary: Hawke is the solid wall behind his back, the one he can always trust.It could have been more, but neither ever make a move. But then a familiar voice calls out to Varric in Skyhold.
Relationships: Male Hawke/Varric Tethras
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13
Collections: Nobody Expects the Dragon Age Smutquisition





	Not On The Run

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaijuburgers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijuburgers/gifts).



> There is disappointing little smut in this smut, I'm sorry. But the men wanted to have backstory and feelings. I know, how dare they?
> 
> Thanks to T(cullenlovesmen) and LauraEMoriarty for beta reading!

* * *

"Damnit, Hawke, was that really necessary?" 

Varric takes his steps carefully, the cobblestones of Lowtown are unreliable enough and with Hawke leaning on his shoulder like a sack of meat, they become treacherous. They finally get to the elevator and Varric leans Garrett against the framework of the rusty cabin that Varric usually wouldn't step in at all. The thing is old, nobody is responsible for keeping it intact and going down with it feels too much like being lowered into a fucking mine shaft.

"Sorry," Hawke mumbles, wincing as the rusty cabin rattles down. His knuckles are white as he leans on his staff. "I know you don't like the elevator." 

"I also don't like you playing hide and seek with someone's knife." It should have been a dead simple job, a little negotiation, a friendly handshake, a business deal well done. Hawke was only meant to be there for show, to impress with his general hugeness and frowny face. He can do a good frowny face if pressed.

Hawke hisses and presses his hand against his side. His usually impressive appearance is dampened by the pain reflecting in his expression.

"Damn Carta assassins," Varric growls under his breath. "I need to clean up my network, I got no warning for this."

"It's not your fault," Hawke says and tries to grin jovially. Combined with his paleness and the pained frown, he fails spectacularly at that.

Varric looks at him from the corner of his eyes. Everyone knows Hawke as the fun guy, the one who always has a smile for everyone and tells bad jokes once he is one ale in. Not many people know Hawke like Varric does. Not many have seen him when darkness settles on his face. When something reminds him of the people he lost, of the people he would have given his life for and still couldn't save. Not many people have held Hawke's hand and seen him cry, but Varric has.

The elevator comes to a halt with a disturbing groan and Varric props up Hawke to step out. Darktown is even worse to walk through, the ground is just keeping its shape from thousands of feet trampling over it and the rising water hollows out pathways from one tide to another, surprising you with new holes to break your ankle in. Hawke's hand clenches around his staff, using it like a walking stick.

At last, Varric can make out Anders' lantern in the permanent dim haze. The last stair rises up like an impossibly steep mountain. Hawke is a dead weight on Varric's shoulder and when they finally clear the top most step, Varric's knees shake. Somehow they make it into Anders' clinic and Varric is about ready to collapse next to Hawke on the ramshackle bed Anders uses for his examinations.

"What happened?" Anders asks, already removing Hawke's jacket and peeling off layers of bloody fabric from his side.

"Carta assassins," Varric says. "I must have made someone angry recently." 

"Maybe it was because of me?" Hawke says, grinning despite the obvious pain he is in. His skin has an ashen colour and the tight lines around his eyes tell how much pain he doesn't show.

Anders' glowing hands hover over Hawke's side and he frowns. "Poison," he mumbles. "I have to test what kind it is, I need to take a sample." He looks at Hawke with an apologetic smile. "This is gonna hurt."

Hawke nods. "Alright." He lays his head back and clenches his hands around the edge of the bed. 

Varric puts his hand on Hawke's and when Hawke turns his hand palm up and grabs Varric's hand, he doesn't flinch away. Varric knows exactly when Anders digs into the wound with a slim knife because Hawke's grip turns into a vice, nearly crushing Varric's hand, but he keeps holding on.

"All done," Anders says, looking at the bloodied knife.

"Andraste's dirty knickers," Hawke presses out between clenched teeth. He still holds Varric's hand in his, squeezing it rhythmically as he breathes through the pain. 

Seeing Hawke lie there, blood still dripping from his wound and holding Varric's hand, draws him back to a similar image after the Arishok fight. Hawke on the floor, his face even more ashen than now, Anders' hands somewhere inside Hawke where they really didn't belong, the gurgling wet sounds as he tried to speak and his hand in Varric's, desperately holding on. Hawke's eyes wide and scared and more vulnerable than Varric had ever seen. When he lies awake at night, unable to sleep, it's that desperate look he sees in his mind.

"Got it," Anders calls out from his desk. "Let me just quickly whip up an antidote and then I can heal that wound. Won't be much longer."

Hawke fakes a smile. "I'll just stay here and get some beauty sleep." He still hasn't let go of Varric's hand. 

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this," Varric says, looking at Hawke's hand in his. 

"Don't worry, I've had worse. Something like this always happens to me." 

"True words," Anders mumbles as he works his pestle, his hand glowing while he adds a pinch of some powder to the paste.

Varric sighs, recalling all the ridiculous injuries Hawke has collected over the years they know each other. "Maybe sometimes, just occasionally, you could try to not step in the way of a sword or a knife. You're a mage, you're supposed to stay in the back." 

"I have a barrier."

"Oh yes? Where was that an hour ago, huh?" Varric glares at Hawke and drops his hand. "Andraste's arse, you're not invincible and one day your luck is gonna run out, Hawke." He turns around and stomps out of the clinic, kicking the door closed behind him with his foot.

Looking out over the water, with the permanent smell of rotting water and whatever Darktown has to add to the aroma of the world, his anger disappears as sudden as it rose. One of Anders' cats strolls along, eyeing him critically, and sits down at a safe distance. "Now, what was that about?" Varric says to the cat. "Kind of dramatic, wasn't it?"

The cat has no comment but keeps watching, its tail twitching. Varric takes a step towards it and the scraggly thing jumps away, disappearing into the darkness. Varric stares at the spot where it crawled under, listening to the anger in him fizzling out. 

Why is he angry? He may write dramatic scenes like that, but he's usually not prone to living in them. He sighs and takes the few steps back to the clinic's door, opening it slowly. Hawke lies still on the bed, his eyes closed and his breathing calm and even. Varric goes to his side, throwing a look towards Anders.

"The antidote made him sleepy," Anders says. "Give him a bit, he should be better in a little while."

Varric drags up a chair and settles down to wait, holding Hawke's hand. Like he always does.

***

Weeks later, like a vision from the fade or some such shit those mages always talk about, Varric is back, dragging Hawke to the clinic again. This time an arrow is sticking in his side and even Varric knows not to pull that out without potions and bandages at hand. Which they don't have because they were just walking from the Hanged Man to Hightown. 

"This town keeps getting worse," Varric mumbles as the cursed elevator rattles down. 

"Yeah." 

That Hawke isn't making a joke about this, has Varric perk up and take a closer look. The bags under Hawke's eyes are more pronounced than two ales at the Hanged Man could justify and he looks haggard? Some of that soft chub is gone from his features. And the way his back is bent and his shoulders hang down has nothing to do with the injury at his side.

"Hey, big guy, you alright there?" Varric asks, putting his hand on Hawke's back.

"Do I look like I'm alright?" Hawke doesn't even pretend to grin.

"No, not really. And I'm not talking about that arrow sticking in you." 

Hawke sighs. He stays silent for so long that Varric starts to worry. Just when Varric tries to fill the silence with some comment, Hawke sighs once more and speaks, "I'm so tired, Varric."

"You've had a lot of shit going on," Varric says, and he knows that's not even scratching the surface. Varric was there when Hawke's mother died, he was there when Hawke almost died himself several times. At some point, all of this just had to catch up with him. "Come on, big guy, you know you don't have to carry it all alone."

Hawke turns to him, and suddenly Varric finds his arms full of all that is Hawke. He stumbles under the weight and holds on as best as he can as Hawke sinks to his knees and just collapses onto Varric. 

"It's alright, it's all good," Varric mumbles, awkwardly patting Hawke's back. He feels Hawke's breath on his neck and can't suppress a small shiver down his spine. He really hasn't been hugged in a long time and especially not like this, with this all-encompassing force.

Even later in the clinic, after Anders removed the arrow and bandaged Hawke up, somehow Varric finds his arms full of Hawke again. Anders throws him an amused look, and Varric can only shrug and pull Hawke closer to his chest.

***

Kirkwall does its best to chew Hawke into tiny little pieces to spit out and leave him on the ground to trample on. Supporting Anders and the mage revolution turns the people against him, and as the city burns, Varric finds himself at the dock with Hawke, to send him off on Isabela's newly liberated ship. 

Hawke glances down to him. "You're sure you don't wanna come with us?" 

For a moment, Varric is willing to take Hawke's hand and follow him anywhere. Anywhere, no matter where, just to be with him. But he shakes his head, like the fool he is. "Still haven't found my sea legs so far, you know. And someone has to take care of this mess here." 

Hawke flinches at that, knowing his own responsibility with the current chaos in the city. "Sorry, my friend." 

"That's what friends do, isn't it?" Varric says with a forced smile. "Fixing the mess, just like you've done for me."

"Not sure I fixed anything," Hawke says, almost too quiet to hear. 

"You did, you really did." Varric looks at Hawke's hand, wanting to take it and feel the staff callouses in his palm. Before he can decide to do that, Hawke leans down and pulls him into a suffocating hug, wrapping all of himself around Varric.

"Come with me, I don't want to leave you here," Hawke mumbles into Varric's neck. The ozone smell of magic clings to him, masking the smell of fire and soot in his coat.

"I'll be fine." Varric presses his nose into Hawke's hair, memorising his true scent for time to come. "You take care of the gang and I'll take care of Kirkwall and in a little while we'll see each other again and have all these stories to tell."

Hawke pulls him even closer and it feels like being smothered by a mountain of wool and fur. "I can't tell you any stories," Hawke says with an amused chuckle that gets lost somewhere in the fierceness of his embrace, "you'll only make a book out of it." 

"I'll make an _amazing_ book out of it." 

"Yes, you will." Hawke slowly lets go, his hands lingering on Varric's arms as he leans back. "It's gonna be great, with all these adventures."

Varric swallows against a lump in his throat. "Rebels On The Run sounds like a good name for a book." Varric's eyes fall to Hawke's lips, red and soft between the bristles of his beard.

"Oi!" Isabela yells from the ship. "Get your ass on board now or stay here."

Hawke straightens, his hands slipping from Varric's arms. "We'll see each other again."

"Yes." Varric doesn't try to hide the tears in his eyes, and Hawke's eyes also have a glittering shine to them. With another breath, Hawke turns around and climbs on the ship. He stays topside, his hands clutching the rail as the ship pulls out of the port. He doesn't raise his arm, doesn't wave at Varric, but he never looks away.

Varric doesn't wave either. He watches until the ship is nothing more than a black spot, its main mast scratching the horizon. Then he turns back to the smoking city and sighs. It's going to be very different without Hawke in Kirkwall.

***

Varric wraps a shawl around his neck, his one concession to the winds in the Frostback Mountains. Skyhold Castle is surprisingly warm, something about a hot spring and plumbing in the walls, but outside pale sunlight is too weak for thawing the landscape and the wind — the wind is relentless. Varric never would have thought that he would miss the stench of Darktown one day, but the wind here in the mountains is just too cold and too clean, too crisp. What he wouldn't give for some soot and rotten water now.

The rickety hut that functions as a tavern for now, welcomes him with golden light, warmth, and the smell of wine and ale. It's a relief, not just after the harshness outside but also because people are smiling. After closing the Breach, after the attack on Haven, after Corypheus, after fearing for the future of all of Thedas as the Herald was lost — it's a relief to see people living again. 

Varric makes his way over to the long table Flissa is using as the bar. As soon as he's there, a mug of ale is in his hand and Flissa waves off his attempt to pay. 

"The Inquisitor got this for everyone," she says, raising her voice over the racket and dipping her head towards a table at the far side of the room. 

Varric follows her line of sight, finding the impressive figure of the Inquisitor at the table with The Iron Bull and the Tevinter mage. The Inquisitor, a strong qunari woman as tall as The Iron Bull, finishes her ale and smiles. Despite her size and strength, her smile is sweet and soft, like a delicate flower blooming. Varric catches a glimpse of the Commander at her other side, good old Cullen of Kirkwall, staring up to her with wide eyes and blushing fiercely. He can't even blame him, she's an impressive woman, with a charming roughness that reminds Varric of Hawke.

That memory causes a stab in Varric's heart. The last time he heard from Hawke had been in Haven, another hastily written letter detailing his travels along the Waking Sea and hinting at some suspicions with the Wardens, but nothing personal. He knows Hawke can't send anything personal in a letter that could easily be intercepted, but it still stings. He misses knowing about his life, more than he likes to admit.

"What with the glum face?" The deep voice of The Iron Bull drones into Varric's ears. The qunari picks up five mugs of ale in one hand and two more in the other and grins as the muscles in his arms ripple. "Wanna join us? We'll put a smile on your face in no time, just ask Cullen what he thinks of our inquisitor's arms."

Varric glances over to the table and a smile creeps up on him. "I've never seen him like this. I don't think the Cullen I knew in Kirkwall was capable of blushing and smiling like that." 

"You seem to need some practice too," the Iron Bull says with a pointed glance at Varric. "There's an ale for you somewhere here in my hand if you want it, you just have to come over."

Varric hesitates only a moment and then follows the Iron Bull to the table, finding a place to sit between him and Dorian. It's cramped and too warm, the ale is passable; the laughter is raucous, and the inquisitor charms the pants off everyone, and it feels so much like home that Varric has to hide a teary sigh as he drinks his ale. 

Much later that night, an ale induced smile on his face, Varric is proud of his fairly sure steps that take him through the courtyard back towards the castle. The stairs are as annoying as the stairs in Kirkwall, but these are at least well maintained with evenly spaced steps. Inside, the hall is pleasantly warm, and he loosens the shawl around his neck as the door falls closed behind him. Shadows dance along the walls in the light from the fire and he almost overlooks the hunched over figure sitting in a chair next to the fireplace. 

"Varric?" 

That voice. He'd recognise it anywhere.

"Hawke?"

The dark shape unfolds, blankets dropping off him like piles of snow sliding down the roofs in Skyhold. "Maker's fart, it's really you." 

Before Varric can say anything, thick arms wrap around and lift him off his feet. "Andraste's dirty knickers," he mumbles into the warm bristles of Hawke's beard. "When did you get here?"

"Just a little bit ago, a guard brought me here to warm up. Said she's going to find you and — "

"Serah Tethras, there you are!" 

The guard found him at last. Varric's feet touch the ground again, but there's still all this Hawke wrapped around him and he doesn't want to let go. He somehow manages to nod towards the guard. "Thanks, I got it from here." 

Alone again, Varric searches for Hawke's face in the pile of furs around him. "Hey, big guy, what do you need? Food, drink? We got a pretty good tavern here, I just came from there and — "

"Do you happen to have a bottle of wine in your room?" Hawke straightens up, like a mountain of furs unfolding and rising. 

"Of course I do."

"I really, really would like to avoid meeting anybody else right now, especially that damn Seeker of yours." 

Varric groans, already dreading the drama he sees in his future over that revelation. "Believe me, I'm right there with you. Cassandra is going to have my head for keeping our letters secret for so long."

He gestures to Hawke to follow him and leads him through the doors and stairs of the quiet castle until they reach the balcony near his room. Hawke stops and looks out over the courtyard, the snow glittering in the silver moonlight. 

"Very pretty," Hawke says, his gaze glancing over the moonlit mountain tops.

Varric fishes his key out of his coat and unlocks the door. "If it wasn't so cold, I would have my coffee here every morning." He pushes the door open and waits for Hawke to go past him. A few embers are still glowing in the fireplace, and Varric quickly closes the door and adds a few pieces of wood to the fire. 

Hawke sheds his coat, holding it in his hand, and stands awkwardly in the middle of the room. When Varric commandeered this room to be his own, he had not planned on welcoming guests here. The room is tiny, filled to the brim with only a bed, a chair and a desk, and a bookshelf that is already overflowing and spilling books onto the floor. It's obvious that he mostly uses the bed here, huddled into a pile of pillows and blankets, the light from the window making it the perfect place for reading and writing. 

"I wouldn't trust the chair so..." Varric makes a vague gesture with his hand and Hawke just unceremoniously collapses onto his coat on the floor, leaning against the bedframe. 

He wipes down over his face, his eyes flitting around the room, taking in everything, quite obviously avoiding looking at Varric. "I'm sorry, I'm..."

Varric shakes his head as he slips out of his coat and drops the shawl on the chair. "What in Andraste's name are you sorry for?"

Hawke somehow deflates even more, the bed creaking from his weight pressing against it. "Fuck, I need a drink."

"Coming right up." 

"You're sitting there, right?" Hawke pets the pile of pillows stuffed into the corner where the bed is shoved against the wall. "You always liked sitting in a cozy nook like that."

"Yeah..." Varric kind of loses his train of thought. It's so familiar to have Hawke here, filling the room with his presence, spread out almost like in his room at The Hanged Man. Filling two big mugs with wine and handing one to Hawke, before climbing onto the bed to settle into his pillow nook, is basically muscle memory. "Yeah...," he says again to fill the air between them with words. "Now what are you sorry about?"

Hawke takes a big gulp from his mug and then stares into it. "I'm sorry I've never written better letters, I'm just not good with words, not like you. And then I heard about Haven and... and I..."

Hawke's words run out and the air between them vibrates from the things he doesn't say. Varric can deal with many things, especially from Hawke, but not silence. Hawke being silent is never a good sign. 

"You're here now, I'm really glad," Varric says. "did you find out anything about the Wardens? Is that why you came here?"

Hawke snorts. "The Wardens. Acting all high and mighty that they don't get involved with anything and then get involved and don't tell anybody about it." 

"So, you and Anders just waltzed up to some wardens and — ?"

Hawke laughs out. "Trying to get Anders in close proximity of Wardens is like trying to bathe a cat."

"You and Anders — "

"Varric." Hawke interrupts. He puts his mug on the floor and turns around so that he leans over Varric's legs and looks him in the eyes. He takes a breath that stretches the silence too long, and then the words just tumble out of him. "There's no me and Anders. There's possibly some Fenris and Anders, and don't even ask me how that works, and I'm not here because of Wardens and all that mess, or Corypheus and Hawke blood, or that damn Seeker chasing me. I'm here because of you."

Varric takes a sip of wine to mask how much the sincerity in Hawke's eyes unnerves him. "Well, I'm glad you — "

"No," Hawke barks out and Varric almost spills his wine. "Sorry," he says and takes Varric's hand. "I'm not doing this anymore, I'm not hiding behind jokes and all that anymore. Life is short, my friend."

Rarely is Varric at a loss for words but now he is. "Ehm, I... what are you saying?"

Hawke takes the still full mug of wine from Varric to set it aside and then rises to his knees so that he can fully lean over the bed, his face hovering right in front of Varric's. "I'm saying that you're my best friend and I wanted to kiss you for more than ten years and I'm not gonna put that aside anymore for some stupid reason. Life is short. Can I kiss you?"

Varric's brain needs several moments to catch up, his gaze flicking from Hawke's eyes looking so calmly at him, down to his slightly chapped lips. He takes another breath and licks his lips. "Yes."

The first thing he feels is the tickle of Hawke's beard. And then... their lips meet. It's soft, careful at first, plenty of time for Varric to map all the sensations to memory, the scratch of his beard, the familiar ozone scent of Hawke's magic, the heat of his body so close to Varric, the soft slide of their lips pressing and opening up to each other. His writer brain wants to take notes, how glorious it feels to have Hawke, his Hawke, here in his arms, kissing him.

The realisation settles over him, warm and fuzzy like his favorite blanket. Hawke is here. For him. 

Hawke is all-encompassing, in everything, and his kisses are no different. With a breath, Varric loses himself in the sensations, secure in the embrace of his friend. A moan escapes him as Hawke presses against him, kissing him until they both run out of breath and then kisses along his jawline to his throat until he stops there, his lips settling on Varric's skin.

Varric stills, listening to Hawke breathing hard. "Hawke? _Garrett?_ " He hasn't said Hawke's name since... since the day he met him for the first time. A short greeting, "Garrett Hawke is the name," and a grin that rivaled the sun. From then on, he had been Hawke. Hawke, the solid wall behind his back, the one he could always trust.

Varric doesn't realize how still he is until Garrett moves. He's bent awkwardly over Varric in a way that can't be comfortable, hiding his face in Varric's neck. "Have I ruined everything now?" he says, his breath flowing over Varric's skin.

"No," Varric hurries to say. "But we could find a more comfortable position for you?"

Hawke... Garrett leans back and looks at Varric with a sheepish smile. "Nothing like draping yourself over your best friend to kiss him to make the evening exciting."

"You can say that again." Varric eyes his mug of wine, the effects of the ale long gone now, but as much as this moment feels like it deserves a dose of wine, he likes to keep his head clear right now. He pulls his legs back and gestures over that part of his bed. Garrett nods and pulls himself up on the bed to settle next to Varric, leaning against the long wall just under the window. The moonlight makes his hair look silver, aging him. 

Varric shakes his head. "Now, Garrett? After everything? After all these years?"

"Are you calling me old?"

"We are old. Old and set in our ways." Varric winces when sees Garrett's face and he realises how that sounds. Like he doesn't want Garrett. "No, stop it, you know that's not what I meant."

"You never called me Garrett before." A sigh rumbles through Garrett's chest, making his whole frame shudder. "Did I wait too long, like the dumb mabari I am?"

Varric looks at him, watching him like he has done so many times. But this time he allows his gaze to linger. He watches him, _really_ watches him, and lets all the defenses crumble away. 

It's Hawke, Garrett. With his precisely cut beard over a stubborn jaw, his broad shoulders, his soft belly, his tree trunk legs, his whole appearance of strength and comfort. For years he has forbidden himself to look at Hawke like this; now he can and the longer he looks, the more heat rises up in his chest.

He wants him. He wants Garrett and now he finally can. It's a new feeling, but it connects directly to every grin they ever exchanged as they ran side by side into whatever mess unfolded before them. 

Giving in to his feelings, he leans forward on his knees and climbs over Hawke's legs to straddle him. He takes Hawke's face in his hands and looks in his eyes. "It's not too late." 

He leans forward and kisses him, suckling on his lips and dipping his tongue forward, taking his time to explore Garrett's mouth. It should be awkward, to kiss his best friend like this, but it isn't. It is the most natural thing.

Garrett wraps his arms around Varric, massive and secure. Varric leans into the embrace and kiss by kiss, desire rises up in him like a heat wave. 

He presses himself against Garrett, and Garrett's arms tighten around him, holding him. Garrett stretches his legs and Varric can feel his erection pressing against the inside of his thigh.

Varric pushes his hips forward, pressing his own hardness against Garrett's, seeking the friction.

Garrett groans. "Fuck, Varric, we need to get rid of these trousers." 

Gasping for breath, Varric scoots back over Garrett's knees until his feet hit the ground. Dropping his trousers is quick work, and he grins as he watches Garrett struggle with his own trousers, wiggling and contorting his body. 

"Don't laugh!" Garrett says, when he finally pushes the offending piece of fabric down. He puts his hands on his soft, round belly. "There's a lot of me here."

Varric goes back to his original position, straddling Garrett's now naked thighs, putting his hands on top of his. "Just the right amount of you." 

Garrett frees his hands and slides them under Varric's shirt, carding his fingers through his chest hair. "I wanted to do this for years."

Varric looks down on Garrett's hands. "You never — "

"I know."

“You never said — “

“I said a lot of stupid things instead, can we agree on that?”

Varric shakes his head. “We were both cowards.”

“Stupid cowards.”

“Very.”

“That’s settled then, are we done now?” There’s a grin playing around Garrett’s lips, but he tries to look serious.

“Done with chastising ourselves?” Varric thinks for a moment, hiding his amusement. “Yes, I think we’ve covered everything.”

“Come here, you ass,” Garrett growls and pulls Varric forward into another kiss. 

Varric opens his mouth easily for Garrett, welcoming his tongue, and his body naturally presses against Garrett’s. His hands wander over all that glorious skin, fingers pressing into the supple flesh of his waist. He stretches his legs wider and cants his hips to grind against Garrett, hissing when his cock rubs against Garrett’s erection. 

Garrett lets out a breath that turns into a moan, pulling Varric closer. “Fuck, Varric, please.”

Varric grinds against him again, just to hear that moan again, and he isn’t disappointed. Garrett moans loudly, shamelessly, his chest heaving with it. 

Varric leans forward, kissing him. “Please what?” he asks.

Garrett’s lips trail over Varric’s chin, down his throat, his beard scratching. He hasn’t stopped moaning; the sound rumbling through him like the purr of a cat. His hips buck and he only stops moaning when he answers Varric’s question. “Please touch me.”

Varric swallows a joke about him practically being glued to Garrett, he knows what the man means. He leans back and slides his hand down between them, wrapping it around Garrett’s and his own cock, and slowly rubs them both in a firm grip.

“Fuck, yes,” Garrett cries out. He’s shaking, his hips thrusting forward. Varric almost loses his balance, he leans further back to steady himself with a hand on Garrett’s knee. Garrett is a glorious sight, stretched out over Varric’s bed, his shirt fallen open to reveal his chest and stomach, soft and strong, his cock pressed against Varric’s, red and glistening with precum. Varric speeds up his movements, tugging at both their erections with rising urgency, closing his eyes as arousal pools rapidly in him. 

“Varric,” Garrett says. Varric opens his eyes and Garrett stares at him, breathing hard as he leans forward. His large hand joins Varric’s around their cocks and Varric loses track of who touches who because his head swims and his body throbs and he comes with a shout and spills, and then he feels Garrett’s cock pulse in his hand and he groans as he comes too. 

Varric isn’t sure how but he finds himself on his side on the bed, Garrett holding him close to his chest and their combined seed a sticky mess between their bodies. He stretches up to look into Garrett’s face and frowns at the worry line on his forehead.

“Hey, big guy, are you alright?”

Garrett looks at him with a careful smile. “I’m alright if you're alright.” He shrugs. “Are you alright?”

A grin spreads on Varric’s face. “I’m more than alright.” He hasn’t felt this good in a long time. “We should have done this years ago.”

Laughter rumbles through Garrett’s chest. “We really should have.”

“Let’s clean up this mess and then we’ll find out if two people can sleep in this bed.”

As they settle down, Varric using Garrett's chest as quite the comfortable pillow, he can't quiet his thoughts yet.

"Well," Varric starts, "what will you do now?"

Garrett sighs deep from his chest, making Varric's head vibrate with it. "Tomorrow I'll face that Seeker — "

" _We'll_ face that Seeker, trust me, she's gonna want to murder us both."

"Is she gonna give us the Aveline stare?"

"Worse."

"Oh dear." Garrett lets out a laugh. "Well, if we survive that, then I'm gonna contact a rogue warden I met to get that Warden mess sorted, and after that I'll try to fix whatever is wrong with that Corypheus fella."

Varric raises his head to look at Garrett. "And when all that is done? What are you going to do?"

Garrett puts his big palm on Varric's cheek, his thumb stroking over the skin under his eye. "Then I'll come back to you and we'll move into a house at some coast and only watch the waves and tell stories for the rest of our days."

"Is that a promise?" Varric asks, leaning into Garrett's touch.

"Yes, that's a promise."

"Good."


End file.
